


Bloom

by Tyranno



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: Because of his strange genetic make-up, Peter drops in and out of his own time unexpectedly, often dropping him in dangerous and unpredictable situation.They manage, though. They always do.





	Bloom

A thick, low growl ran through the ship’s walls, vibrating through the floor grating, ratting the railings. Kraglin could almost smell the creature’s foul smell, could almost imagine the animal’s heavy paws and undulating tentacles appearing around the corner. He swallowed thickly.

“Oh no,” Peter said.

“‘Oh no’ is right,” Kraglin huffed. A few weeks ago, he had been overjoyed that Peter had joined the crew—finally, someone younger than him that he could boss around!—but now he wished he’d been stuck in a death-defying situation with literally anyone else. Even Brahl.

“It’s not that,” Peter said, nervously.

“Whatever,” Kraglin said flatly. He strained his ears. Was that claws scraping on grating that he heard, or was it just nails rattling. Kraglin checked his ammunition.

“Look, Kraglin!” Peter said, voice cracking, “If I come back really little please look after me!”

“What the hell are you—?” Kraglin asked, glancing over at the kid in time to see a film of blue light cover him head to toe and then just vanished. Kraglin blinked. He had been looking right at the little Terran, and hadn’t seen where he could’ve gone.

There was a heavy thump of something incredibly large and angry beating the door down which took his attention away. Kraglin swapped the half-empty ammunition block for a fresh one, and offered up a little prayer to whoever was listening.

“Whoa, Kraglin!” Someone exclaimed behind him.

Kraglin glanced back and stared. A different Terran was standing a few paces behind him with a wolfish grin. He looked strikingly like Peter, with the same brownish-red hair and quirked eyebrows—even had the same cheap-looking music player.

“You look so young!” The Terran smirked, “That gun’s almost bigger than you!”

“Peter?” Kraglin yelped.

“Yep,” Peter said, “I’m sure you have a lot of questions but we’ve gotta deal with the matter at hand.”

A huge crash marked the breaking of the door and a blood-curdling roar cut through the air. The creature that rounded the corner was heavy and toothy, with a row of six eyes buried in its wrinkled grey skin.

“You’re an ugly piece of shit, aren’t ya?” Peter grimaced, firing a dozen rounds into its eyes. The creature recoiled, slamming into the walls pipes, shooting off spouts of hot gas. It screamed.

Peter stamped and the rockets on his shoes activated. He spun, like a flipped coin, and landed with a squelch on the creature’s back. One shot in the hollow between the creature’s ears—and it slumped, dazed.

Peter slipped off the animal’s side, shaking the slime from his shoes with a tut. “You’re welcome,” Peter said, giving Kraglin a winning grin.

“Eh,” Kraglin said, scratching his chin, “I could’ve done it better.”

Peter raised his eyebrows and checked his watch. “You have about time for one question. Maybe two.”

“So you’re… really Peter?” Kraglin asked, “Or are you Peter’s dad or something?”

“I’m Peter,” Peter said, “Bit of a waste of a question, but I can’t really blame you.”

“What do you mean?” Kraglin frowned.

A blue film of light encased the older Peter and he winked out of existence. And then regular Peter winked back in.

Little Peter whorled around and stared, wide-eyed, at the collapsed beast. He let out a deep sigh, and started pressing his hands over his face and looking down his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Kraglin asked.

“Checking for new scars,” Peter said.

“There won’t be any,” Kraglin sighed.

Peter glanced back at him. He smiled. “You dealt with that one really quickly,” Peter said, “Must have been really cool to see.”

“Yeah,” Kraglin sighed, holstering his gun. “It was.” Kraglin headed towards the door. It had been broken in, and sagged, like an open wound. He stepped over the shards of the metal. “Let’s head back to the ship.”

 

*

 

“Oh no,” Peter whispered.

Rocket’s head snapped up. He glared across the prison bunks. “What is it? You need a piss? You know you’ve gotta hold it in until morning now.”

Peter pushed the arm off him.

“Quill?” Rocket sat up. “Where you going?”

Peter stumbled into the hallway. The tingling spread up his legs like pins and needles. A blue light spread over his hands and he swallowed, hard. He vanished.

“Quill?” Rocket blinked hard. He had been looking right at him—he padded onto the gangway, peering down into the empty cafeteria and in both directions. It was like he had just… disappeared.

There was a small flash of blue. Quill again—but different. Older. His eyes were ringed with dark circles and he was cradling his side which stunk with blood. He peered at Rocket and the sadness in his eyes grew deeper. “Rocket...” Peter sighed. He looked out, into the sleeping prison and frowned.

“Hello?” Rocket frowned up at him. “Can you hear me? Is this an escape plan—cause wow, I have no idea how you did that.” Rocket circled him. “An embedded transporter? Some kind of light-bending tech?”

Quill sighed and fixed him with an unreadable look.

“What’s that look for?” Rocket asked. Groot joined him, towering over both of them. “I am Groot...” Groot added.

“It’s nothing,” Quill said, raising his eyebrows in defeat. He turned and headed down to the showers.

Rocket noticed he was missing a few fingers. Despite himself, he reached out and tugged them. Quill snatched his hand back and glared faintly. He grimaced pressing harder on his wounded side.

“Is this all an illusion?” Rocket asked, bounding to keep up, “Or were you always missing fingers?”

“It’s neither,” Quill said.

“What?” Rocket asked, nearly slipping on the damp metal.

“I don’t have time to explain,” Quill shook his head.

“Sure you do,” Rocket started, but cut himself off when Quill stopped suddenly. The smell of the showers was horrible; a mix of piss and disinfectant, and they were walking in on something that Rocket would usually have the mind to avoid.

Gamora held a knife in each hand—one to an unfamiliar prisoner’s throat, and the other to Drax’s—dark eyes fierce. She scowled.

“I’m no family to Ronan,” Gamora gritted out, “Or Thanos.”

She stepped back, and dropped her weapons.

“I’m your only hope at stopping him,” Gamora said.

Drax roared. He slammed Gamora into the wall, holding her by the throat. He pressed a dagger to his skin. “Woman! Your words mean nothing to me,” Drax yelled.

“Hey!” Quill stepped into the showers, “Don’t do that. You’ll regret it.”

“Who are you?” Drax snapped. “If you think you can take me on as wounded as you are—you’re a fool.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Quill said, “Think about this. Gamora’s not the one you want. It’s Ronan.”

“This will hurt Ronan,” Drax snarled, turning back to Gamora.

“No it won’t,” Quill snapped, “Ronan felt no kinship. He was a beast. But she betrayed him, and if she’s alive—Ronan would’ve come for her. When he did—does—you can kill him then.”

Drax stared into the knife at Gamora’s throat.

“This could be your one chance to get revenge,” Quill said, flatly.

Drax stepped away, dropping Gamora. He slid the knife into his belt and turned to Quill. “You are wise,” He said, “For a Terran.”

The old man’s features lit up and he gave a tired smile. “So that’s where he got that impression,” He muttered, and vanished.

 

*

 

A tentacle collided with a building, obliterating it. Kraglin snatched Peter by the back of the jacket and raced away from the falling chunks of cement. The tall palm-like trees whipped around in the wind, spraying Kraglin’s face with dust. He coughed, throwing the Terran down behind a flimsy shack.

Peter winced up at him.

“What is it?” Kraglin snapped, ducking around the wood to check that the monster—yes, it was still looking for them, yes it was still pissed. “Can it wait?”

“Not really,” Peter showed him the blue light covering his palms. “It’s never happened this close together, before. It’s only been a week since the last one.”

“Oh, thank God,” Kraglin took Peter’s hands and pressed a spare gun into them. “Finally catching a break.”

“Don’t, I’ll just take it with me,” Peter passed it back to him and disappeared.

He was replaced by a toddler.

“I’m so dead,” Kraglin groaned.

He snatched Peter up and started running.

 

*

 

“Gamora!” Peter burst into the living room. “Gamora, oh my god!”

“Peter?” Gamora looked up from her cards. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“The opposite of wrong,” Peter sat down opposite her, propping his chin up on his wrist.

Rocket glanced between them, frowning. Peter looked like a little lovesick puppy dog.

“You look different, Peter,” Gamora said, “Are you sick?”

“I’m eight years older, but don’t worry, that’s temporary,” Peter waved a hand.

Gamora snatched his hand, and turned it over. She ran a finger over his stumps. “What happened?” Gamora asked.

Peter tugged his hand back and buried it in his jacket, “That doesn’t really matter right now,” He said, quickly. “What’s important is that I’m halfway through a cover op that’s probably blown to shit now, but I haven’t seen Gamora in a month and I’m missing her like mad.”

“Missing me?” Gamora asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Peter said, dreamily.

“You’ve never explained this to us properly,” Rocket said, putting his cards down, “How does this time travel thing work?”

“I’m unstuck in time for a couple reasons,” Peter said, “It means that sometimes I swap with versions of me in the past and future, but it’s temporary. The present me comes back soon.”

“How did you get unstuck?” Gamora asked.

“You’ll know someday,” Peter said, “I can’t say much ’cause it’s in the past and all. Don’t want to create a time paradox or anything.”

“Hang on,” Rocket said, rubbing his forehead, “That doesn’t make sense.”

Peter shrugged. He glanced at the blue light over his hands and groaned. “I didn’t even get a kiss,” Peter sighed, and was whisked away.

Present Peter winked back, cradling his head. Blood rolled from under his hairline, and he pressed his scalp gingerly. “Future me is an asshole,” He grumbled, standing up, “Dropping me in a situation like that, I hope he gets shot.” Peter stalked out, grumbling.

Gamora stared after him.

Rocket glanced between them, black eyes wide. He turned back to his cards, shaking his head. “You know, that future Peter...” He started, and trailed off.

Gamora glared at him, “What?”

Rocket shuffled his hand. “I think he was wearing a wedding band.”

 

*

 

Yondu stopped in the entrance to Kraglin’s quarters, raising an eyebrow. “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” Kraglin said, a little awkward. Wriggling, wrapped up in what looked like Kraglin’s spare uniform, was a baby. It was sleeping, chubby fingers curled up in Kraglin’s jacket. “It’s a baby.”

“Is it yours?” Yondu asked.

Kraglin laughed, “Nah. It’s Peter.”

The little babe opened his eyes, waving his arms at Kraglin’s scraggily beard. Kraglin let him latch onto his finger.

“He has some explaining to do,” Yondu said, after a moment.

“Mmm,” Kraglin said.

Peter smiled goofily, flexing his stubby fingers.

“He makes a cute baby,” Yondu said, squinting. Peter gurgled.

“Sure does,” Kraglin said, smiling down at him.

 

*

 

There was a thump and a scattering of metal.

“Quill?” Drax put his knives down and cautiously approached the engine room. It was small, even for a ship like the Milano, and the air smelt of ship fuel. Pipes wove across the ceiling so densely that he had to stoop uncomfortably low.

A wail rose from behind a box of old gun caskets.

A toddler, no older than three, kicked his little legs out and screamed. He was wearing an oversized with text Drax couldn’t read, and little green shorts. The toddler’s hand were shaking.

“You got burned?” Drax asked.

Peter wailed, lifting his arms up urgently.

Drax held the child carefully, large hands under his arm pits, and rested him against his shoulder. Peter continued crying, little hands curling against Drax’s complex skin. Drax patted him on the back, carrying him towards the living room. Terrans might be weaker, but kids were kids. He was sure he remembered enough from taking care of Kamaria to manage.

 

*

 

Gamora watched the night. The blackness of space, something she used to be scared of, was now calming. Although they were travelling near-impossibly fast thanks to Rocket’s modifications, the neighbouring planet seemed to move at a snail’s pace, nearly too slowly to notice. At that pace, things seemed manageable.

The flecked stars reminded her of something funny Peter had once likened it to—being inside a giant, badly mixed brownie. She still hadn’t understood that, but something about the strangeness of it appealed to her.

The muzzle of a gun bumped into the back of her head. She sighed, leaving a pale mark on the pristine observatory glass.

Gamora turned around, glancing at the gun-wielder.

“Don’t move!” Peter piped out.

Gamora raised an eyebrow and shifted her weight.

“I mean it!” Peter yelped. “I don’t know where I am, but as soon as I send a message to Yondu—”

Gamora twisted her hip sharply, kicking the gun from Peter’s hand and shoving him backwards. Peter stumbled, empty-handed and dumb-struck.

Straightening up, Gamora took Peter by the shoulder. “Let’s go get a drink,” She said.

“Whoa,” Peter said, flushing. “Really?”

“Not like that,” Gamora rolled her eyes.

“Geez, Peter’s so small,” Rocket said, when they reached the living room. He leered at Peter.

“You’re one to talk,” Peter scowled.

Rocket gave an exaggerated sigh. “You’re what, fifteen?”

Peter brightened, “Do I look fifteen? I’m actually just turned thirteen, but I’ve been spending some extra time away so I guess that makes sense.”

Rocket shook his head.

“You’re really very pretty,” Peter said, smiling at Gamora.

Gamora took a long drink, lifting a hand to wiggle her ring at him.

Mantis giggled quietly from the kitchen.

“Lucky guy,” Peter sighed.

“That he is,” Gamora smiled.

“A stupid guy as well,” Kraglin said, taking a seat opposite, “He’s a bit of an asshole, to be honest.”

“Kraglin?” Peter yelped, and looked around the hodge-podge group, “So these guys are Ravagers.”

“Um,” Kraglin said.

“Spoilers,” Mantis said, tapping the side of her nose.

“Okay,” Peter shook his head and turned back to Gamora, “So about your Husband… is he bad enough for you and me—”

“He’s not classy,” Gamora laughed, waving him off, “But I love him.”

“He’s wise too,” Drax said, nodding sagely.

“Kraglin’s right about the asshole part,” Rocket said, and paused. He sighed, “But he’s not a bad guy.”

“Sounds hard to compete with,” Peter sighed.

“I’m sure you’ll manage, someday,” Gamora winked.

Peter smiled, and vanished.

Present Peter came back, holding a small retractable knife. “Hi everyone,” He said.

“Wait,” Kraglin said, snatching the knife from his hands, “This is mine! I was looking for this for ages! I knew you’d stolen it!”

“To be fair, Peter didn’t steal it, I did,” Peter said, lifting his hands in a placating gesture.

“This is confusing,” Drax said.

“I am Groot,” Groot said.

“You’re right,” Rocket said, “It _was_ weird seeing Peter with all his fingers again.”

 

 

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Bloom" by Paper Kites, which I was listening to while writing this (among other songs). There is no canon for Peter's fingers, it's just a mystery I decided to add for effect... I was thinking along the lines of him being tortured, and I like when a character's adventures leave permanent marks, it ties well into continuity.


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